


cruel, cruel world, i'm gone

by grab_n_growl



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Amnesia AU, Angst, Anxiety, Canon Compliant, Comfort, Confessions, Coping, Denial of Feelings, Depression, Dreams, Emotional Manipulation, Entire Game Walkthrough, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It of Sorts, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Hallucinations, Healthy Relationships, Hurt, I promise, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Most Canon Compliant Character Deaths, NSFW, Pre-Canon, Pre-canon relationships, Prophetic Visions, Requited Love, Self Confidence Issues, Spoilers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, depictions of mental illness, every tag regarding emotional, graphic depictions of gore, it will get better and end well, ptsd themes, this is a whole lotta pain, this will have a happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 16:18:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19321726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grab_n_growl/pseuds/grab_n_growl
Summary: He felt like he wasdying.His body was falling apart, his mind wasfalling apart.And no matter where he looked for comfort, in even the slightest of ways, it was always the same.To get over it.That what's done is done, and now he had to move forward. He just had toget over it, get over it, get over it.





	cruel, cruel world, i'm gone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Guntz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guntz/gifts).



> this is a long-overdue beginning of a request for Guntz! i currently have the framework for 13 chapters done (so far at shady belle). i will be working on other requests in-between chapters for this work so i can get everything done. hope everyone enjoys!
> 
> come talk to me and request shit from me on tumblr: https://grab-n-growl.tumblr.com

Despite all of his denials, his fighting tooth-and-nail, he can't imagine his end to be anything other than _this._  
  
Lord knows he deserves it.  
  
_Bleeding-_  
  
Crumpled in a heap in the freezing cold mud, numbness overtaking the frayed nerves along his body, paradoxically soothing the red-hot _burning_ that throbbed with every pulse of his heart. A heart that was just barely keeping him _alive._ The _pain, the pain-_  
  
Was enough to bring any man to his knees. But John had long since gone down. All he can sense is the uncomfortable slick of the dirt against him, the rain a tempest across his broken, beaten body, caressing down the length of open wounds and sickly bruises. A mangey mutt left for dead. It was what he _deserved._ For all the shit he'd pulled to get to this point, gasping laughter a haunting surround-sound as dark silhouettes danced above his swimming vision- he no longer knew how many there were. Couldn't remember how many fists had dug into his body, had _shattered_ his bones beneath knuckles and steel toes-  


 

_kill the bastard._

 

He doesn't have it in him anymore to _struggle,_ but he manages to pull swollen, split lips back in a snarl of _defiance_ against the fate he couldn't escape from. Against the path _he'd chosen,_ against the choices _he'd made._ No matter how he looked at it, no one had _forced him to do this._ To take this route and yet, in his _stubbornness,_ in his _denial,_ he'd chosen the trail he'd thought would be full-enough of _spite_ to justify his own anger. Anger he'd spewed at everyone else but himself.

But all it'd done was make him into an _idiot,_  more than he already was.

And now, he would pay for the sins that were _his and his alone._ A battered and bruised hound, a dog shot down into the _dirt,_ just as it should've been. What he _deserved._ Of course, the  _O'Driscolls_ were not his preferred ferrymen to Hell, but beggars couldn't be choosers now, could they? Especially not _him._

Not _John Marston._

_Particularly_ considering the entire reason he was _here,_ mud filling the pool of his gaping maw, spittle running red and beat-frothy-

    _Pain, pain, pain, everywhere-_  
  
        Abigail said she was _pregnant._  
  
And he, being the _stupid dog_ that he was, got pinned for it.  
      
    _Why? Why him?_

  
Everyone fucked her. She was a whore, that was her career in life, as low-down and terrible as it was. It was... what it was. That wasn't his  _fault._ But still, she'd come to _him,_ teary-eyed and wringing her hands until they crusted with flakes of worn skin, nerves getting the better of her. Cruelly, he'd thought briefly to snark at her that most men didn't soon _swoon_ for rough hands, but had wisely held his tongue that time. And told him, told him that _he was the father._

Did he believe it?

    ... _No._  
  
But a part of him, some distant part, perhaps did.

When Jack had been born, it had been some wild-eyed affair that John had kept his distance from. Even when Hosea had come to where he'd isolated himself at the edge of camp under the cover of comforting _darkness_ (of course the silver fox was able to find him anyway) to tell him that _his son_ had been born, and that Abigail was asking for him-

He'd turned his head away, mumbled real quiet-like, and lopped off further into the woods to be _alone-_

 

_he's not my son._

 

Thinking back on it, he shouldn't have been so cruel. So _terrible_ about it all. And though there were so, so many _excuses_ he could make for himself, so many mistakes he could pin on _her,_ he just couldn't bring himself to truly do it aside from painful _avoidance._ His wayward soul was lost at home, _alone_ in a room full of _people._ He felt _trapped, wired,_ his leg caught in a bear trap that whether he relaxed into or fought from, _it hurt all the same._

Every day, he felt the leather of a _collar_ around his neck, one he couldn't chew through no matter how sharp the teeth. 

    Sometimes, it turned into a _rope,_ one he woke up _screaming_ from-

Abigail had never shown any sympathy for it. Had merely looked at him with those hardened blue eyes and demanded he _move on from it._

_How could he?_ How could _any of them_ move on from this? She acted like they'd be the perfect family, like they could be a family _at all._ Why didn't she see? It didn't matter anyway. They would all be gunned down like the dogs they were, no matter the good they did in the living life. They'd made their beds, and now they had to lie in them-

    It was the only thing John Marston didn't try to _fight._ That miserable reality.

        People like _them_ didn't get to have happy endings.

How was he to know what a _father_ was supposed to be, anyway? It wasn't like he'd had much of one. And Dutch? _Hosea?_ Well, he wasn't as _desperate_ as Arthur for some guidance in his life, no. John was darker, darker, _darker._ Younger, yes, but his heart had hardened far faster than the stag's had. The men were _guidance, sure._ But none of them were his _father._ None of them would ever achieve that spot, not like how Arthur was the golden boy and prize pony, groomed from day one to be _a weapon._

John recalled the first time he'd met the older man-

It was like he was a puppy being _gifted_ to the blonde's hands, to take care of, to nurture and give guidance to-

    John had bit him within five minutes (if they wanted a puppy, oh, he'd give them a _dog for sure_ ) and ran around camp, crowing and howling for the stag to _find him-_  
  
Arthur had been on him in less than ten seconds flat, hands in the scruff, pulling him up to eye-level with mere strength alone and commanding he _behave._ John had never... he'd never felt the way that he had in that moment before. Subdued, quieted, _stopped._ And though he teethed then and again, the other's hands were always _there._ Always there for him, even if it was rough and uncouth. That style fit them better than anything _gentle, anyway-_

As a boot crushed his cheekbone into the mud, keeping him _still,_ he wondered if Arthur would _miss him._  
  
Miss _him,_ and not just a warm body he could _sleep with_ whenever he wanted.

    ... Perhaps John was just a loyal a hound as Arthur, but bayed to different calls, different _masters._  
  
            He didn't think the stag realized that _he was John's._  
  
It'd taken a year. A year of Jack's life before the rope burnt around his throat in such a flurried frenzy that he _couldn't stay._ Watching it all happen before him, never feeling able to _breathe,_ never able to get over _anything._ Nervous breakdowns were common for him, though he hadn't known that's what they were, no. Just went to sleep _shivering_ every night, and woke up _just the same-_

    His hands had begun to _shake_ under even the slightest of stresses, he couldn't get it to **_stop-_**

            He could only sleep in little _winks _at a time before the **_nightmares_** returned him to the _land of the living-_

                His heart never seemed to _calm , _no matter _what he was doing_ , and his thoughts had become so distracted he more often than not would _strand himself_ in the _woods_ by himself with no recollection of _having gotten there_ , or what he'd _been doing-_

                Little noises made him _**jump** _(like every time Abigail would **slap him** ) _,_ loud noises made him _**tremble** _for _hours_ (like Arthur's _gun going off_ to chase a **wolf** out of _camp)_ -

            He'd almost **_cracked_** his molars from how hard he kept his jaw _clenched_ for long periods of time, unable to get it to _relax , _and he'd sometimes have to go _without food or water_ for _hours_ with how **_unyielding_** his teeth would be _-_

    Every muscle in his body _ached_ _constantly_ from how tight they would _**wind**_ , rendering him a stone statue some days, creaking like a man _much older than he was-_

His thoughts would either _race _so fast he couldn't _keep track_ , or so _**sluggishly**_ he could hardly _move_ with how _s l o w_ commands floated to his _sinew_ and _**bones**_ -

 

            He felt like he was _**dying.**  _

  
His body was falling apart, his mind was _falling apart._ And no matter where he looked for comfort, in even the slightest of ways, it was always the same. _To get over it._ That what's done is done, and now he had to move forward. He just had to _get over it, get over it, get over it._

    And _Arthur, oh, Arthur-_  
  
        -when John had come to him with his concerns, he'd seen the same hard blue eyes, cold and _ragged,_ as the stag had turned him away and commanded he go to his _family._ And no matter how the wolf had begged and pleaded to be forgiven, the man did not give way. And the dog was left alone, all by himself _again._ There was no one there for him. And Arthur? Oh, he'd never _loved him._ And he'd been a fool to ever think he did.

So... John had left. They didn't need him. Not with how the girls fawned over Jack, how _some_ of the men would stop by to check in and help where they could (why, why was _he_ the one pegged instead of Dutch? Bill? Javier? Davey? Mac? _Arthur?_ ), no, Abigail didn't _need him. Jack_ didn't _need him. No one needed him._ So he ran. Fled from certain death- or, rather, ran towards it, just from a different direction.

Laying here now, in the mud and rainwater, hearing the _cocking_ of a **pistol** over his head-

    He felt _relieved, so much so,_ that _tears_ sprung comforting heat in his eyes.

He'd never wanted to _die_ as badly as he wanted to now. And never had he ever heard the click of a gun and feel nothing but sweet _comfort._   _Release._ His shaking stopped, his heart had calmed, his muscles relaxed and freed him from their _prison._ Lax against the ground, he could for the first time in an entire year understand his own thoughts and the pace in which they came to him.

Everything was _right._

 

It didn't hurt.

  


...

...

...

_hello?_

...

_mister-_

...

_are you alright?_

...

_you will be now._

Despite the agony of his fate, the one that he deserved, he still selfishly, and gently, hoped he would be.

  


A week.

    Out for a _week-_  
  
Not that he could truly recall it all that well, not with everything so _fuzzy-_

Like little dancing flickers of coins, suspended on _sparkling wire,_ turning in place and swinging, _swinging, swinging, _back and forth and around his conscious, dragonflies in the midsummer's eve, wings waxy and crystalline.  
  
    He liked them- there was one hovering on the windowsill now, curious _hovering,_ plated eyes staring into his _own-_  
  
It seemed to have found what it was looking for, with the way its spindled legs rested for a few warm moments, _a friend,_ even if just for a little while. A little while in John's life, perhaps, one that had been seemingly dug out from a grave and put back into his body, but for the _dragonfly-_

It used a much larger part of its comparatively shorter life to be beside him, two creatures _resting,_ one worn wood and one numb bed.

        There was something about it, in his lazy-river thoughts, that made him feel _honored_ to share in its grace.

_A moment more-_

And off it went, a silver-flash through the blue-day, having left him feeling warmer and fuller with existence than he'd had in... in so long. But that length of _time..._  
  
        _What..._ had become of **himself?**  


 

_are you alright?_

 

He couldn't recall. Felt as though he was missing something- _many things, and yet,_ nothing at all. Unsettling. _Unnerving._ He felt as though he should be angry. Be upset. Be _afraid._ And phantom ghosts of the pains curled like cold fingers around his spine, notched beneath his _ribs,_ and yet they did not take root. It was _aimless anxieties,_ they felt _right_ just as much as they felt _wrong._

_He was missing something, wasn't he?_

 

" Mister? Are you awake now? "

 

There was movement, there was  _life,_ in this room where he lay, sun-soaked and gentle and _strange, and yet,_ it felt more a home than he'd had in years. Dappled in the corners, curled up on cushions, stretched out across the walls and floor, dancing in the very air he _breathed._  

    He felt _clear._  


 

" That was quite a beating you took, mister. "

 

Eyes, eyes, _eyes, on him-_

A man. A young man, perhaps close to his own age (one he, for some reason, could not remember at the moment), with blonde hair all a-fluff, like it couldn't be tamed if one tried- pretty... _pretty_ green eyes, sparkling in the set of high cheekbones and a kind visage. All on _him, on him- who?_ Who was he? Who was _himself?_ Who was anyone?

    He was... missing  _something-_  


 

" My name is Leo. Ah, _Leonardo,_ Leonardo Williams-  _Doctor_ Leonardo Williams, but ah, you don't have to call me that. Just Leo is fine. And who might you be? "

 

 

The man seemed to _flutter,_ like a newborn fawn, wobbly and sweet-tongued and John couldn't help but _stare- stare_ at the way nimble fingers shifted glasses on the bridge of a fine nose, cheeks a flushed sort of color, dusted with honey freckles- _a smudge of dirt_ at the corner of his jawline-

    There was such a _life_ in those eyes, flickering like the dragonfly's wingbeats, sparkling beneath the caress of the _sunlight_ -

 

" Sir? "

 

_Right._

_Who was he?_

_Who was_ **_John Marston?_ **

 

" ... John Marston."

 

Throat like _sandpaper-_

    _Right,_ he was _John Marston_ -

 

" ... and I'm nobody. "

_**nobody** at all. _

" Well, a pleasure to meet you, nobody. Forgive me, but it isn't usual for 'nobodies' to be so... well, I apologize for the abruptness of all of this, but you were quite in need of treatment, so I took the liberty of doing so. Don't worry about payment yet, mister. Just focus on getting your rest. "

 

There was a pleasant _ring_ to Leo's voice, something _honeyed_ , and John couldn't help but feel the heaviness of his own conscious weigh him down into the bedding-

    It took him a few tries, dried tongue swiping at his cracked and swollen lips (a terrible taste on them), before he could speak again- the other man's hands steady with a drink of water ready-

 

" ... Where the hell am I? "

 

God, _soft fingers,_ gentle at the base of his skull as his head was angled off the pillow so he could delicately sip at the liquid presented to him. Leo smelled like dirt, earthen and kind, but something of it made him almost _recoil_ as painful memory jittered in his brain-

    Getting beat to Hell and back- _right. He remembered that part._  


 

" You're in Saint Augustine. Do you... do you have any idea where you are? Why those terrible men were beating you so? "

 

The query made him _laugh,_ something terrible and gurgling, pulling at bruises and gashes and cuts lacerating his face, rattling in a chest wrapped in bandage- something was _broken there, he could feel it._ But the pain made him feel alive, made him feel full of _something clear,_ instead of the messy thoughts and broken mirrors he recalled being swamped with for... for a long time. _A long time._

And Leo's soft squawk in reaction made dragonflies dance in his vision, crystals _suspended,_ as supple hands worked to get him to _calm_ even as he rasped somethin' awful-

 

" _Oh, Mister Williams._.. I was bein' _stupid,_ that's what. If you can imagine... "

 

There was a searing _agony_ that fluttered in his forehead, across the expanse of his cranium, dug deep into his skull and _burning,_ and the grit of his canines against the force only made it worse, _worse, worse..._ His vision spun, covered in all kinds of shades of _red,_ but Leo's hands are a cool companion that gently lower him back to the earth with brushes and soothes. His voice was _lilting-_

 

" _Leo._ And yes, I can certainly imagine mister, with you workin' yourself up after I just got you settled. "

 

There is something in that tone, amused and stern and _kind,_ that had something fizzling in the back of his skull, like the frothy bubbles of river-rapids. Something teasing at him, a feather down his spinal cord, but just escaping the pads of his fingertips when he _reached for it- he couldn't remember-_

_... Did he want to?_

    Did he want to _remember,_ whatever it was?

There was a taste of _danger_ around it, instincts rising wolf and _feral,_ that told him one thing and one thing only-

 

_ Don't. _

  


His laughter was _softer_ this time, floored and _exhausted,_ but his lack of imminent demise seemed to soothe the hardened lines of the other man's shoulders where they hovered over him. There was a finger wagging in front of his eyes- slow, then fast, and he followed it like a fish baited on a hook, _stupid-_

There was green, _so close,_ as Leo seemed to content in checking him over-

    God, he felt like he'd been hit by a _train-_

When the doctor pulled back and he managed to hassle a look down, he was surprised he hadn't been, with the amount of bandages swathed around his bare torso, purple-blue prints and daffodil petals peaking up from the cloth rimmed in _scarlet._ Looked chewed up and spit out, that's what. He supposed he deserved it. Provoking the... the... _O'Driscolls, yes, that was their name._ Because he was angry. Because he was blind. Because he was stubborn. Because he was _stupid-_

    But _why?_

_Why_ all of those things?

  
Lord knows he just usually was, but aside from the _usual, why this time?_

 

Leo's gaze was... _quiet. Thoughtful._ Twirling like falling leaves to the forest floor, dance partners the sunbeams sparkling through the canopy- _pretty. Familiar._ Somehow, the cowboy felt as though he should... _know someone else._ But everything escaped him, everything seemed to _bleed,_ seemed both cloudy and _clear._ And he was a dog far too beaten and tired to try to fight it, to try to search through it- allowed it to simply take him for what he was.

What he _was._  
  
What was he?

He couldn't _recall._

 

" Well... try to rest, will you?- "

 

Waxy wings, _in and out..._

 

" -I'll check on you again soon- "

 

Crystals on _strings- strings-_

 

" You'll be okay, John. "

 

Strings-

A hand gentle at his forehead-

_Strings-_

 

_guitar strings._

_the wires suspending the crystals were guitar strings-_

_played a tune he should've known-_

_as he fell to the comfort of the darkness, he saw a shadowy shape in the afterglow of a campfire's warmth-_

_he didn't know-_

_he knew them-_

_he didn't-_

**he did-  
**  
_he knew them, that man-_

_yes, it was-_

_it was-_

_... lost it._

 

_..._

 

Another week.

    Another _week,_ stuck in _bed.  
_  
There was something about it that made him _uneasy, discomforted._ He felt that there was empty air around him, that he should be surrounded by many more people than he ever was. And every time he felt himself _relax_ into the bedding, hearing the springs _creak-_

He felt as though there was supposed to be a _voice, multiple-  
_          
        To tease him, to make fun of him for being so busted up.

But there was... nothing.

_Empty._

It was too calm, sometimes-

 

" Good morning, Mister Marston! "

 

... Sometimes.

 

" Ah, _John_ , Leo- "

 

Dancing in his vision, someone kind and _steady-_

 

" Oh, yes, yes, _John._ Feeling up to giving walking 'round a try again? "

 

How the doctor managed to be so chipper seemed to endlessly confuse the wolf, watching the blonde flit like a fawn around his backroom where John had been delegated to- a place for _long-term patients, so he was told._ And judging by the state of himself when he'd come in, the man didn't doubt this had been no _easy fix-_

A _broken nose-_  
    _Black and **swollen**_ eyes (both, in fact)-  
        A _shotgun wound_ to a shoulder blade (after a few nights rest, he _definitely remembered that one_ )-  
        A handful of _**broken** ribs_ (made breathing quite difficult the first few days)-  
    A _busted leg_ , just shy of _broken_ (they'd tried to get him walking earlier. didn't end well)-  
A _blackened, **bruised**_ body covered in contusions-

 

And a _concussion_ from a _significant beating_ and a _**gunshot**_ having glanced off his skull, one he narrowly escaped from with his life.

" ... Alright, though you'll be disappointed to find I'm one sorry bastard, even more so now that I'm all... well, you treated me, you know it. "

 

The _look_ Leo sent him was something that jingled in his heart, made his veins _flare,_ and _he couldn't remember-_

 

" Sorry bastard as you are, I got you to the land of the living and I prefer to keep you in it this time. "

 

Something on his _tongue, flippant, heavy-_

 

" You wouldn't be missin' much without me. "

 

A _flush, on Leo's face-_

 

" ... That ain't true and you know it, John. Now hush up so I can get your crutches in peace. "

 

Yes, he did know it. The doctor had not made his affections lackluster, try to be subtle as he might. And John, despite being the dumbest bastard he knew, was not  _utterly obtuse._ And so the green-eyed glances did not go unnoticed, the sweet smiles did not go forgotten. He caught every shift of breath, as an untamed wolf such as he was trained to do. Every _heartbeat, he knew-_

One that was _fragile, the heart._

John hadn't known it until the day Leo had stumbled into the back room where he laid, gasping _soft and quiet,_ fingers outstretched for a _hold, for anything._ There was a look of fear that felt wistful, felt familiar, felt _known._ Like this was nothing new. Like this was something that happened so frequently that it was only the unconscious that rose to its terror now-

In a way, that was true.

A _heart murmur, Leo said._

As he weighed heavily on his wooden splints a few minutes later, he wondered just what Leo's little heart was _doing_ when their height difference became _measurable._ Leo was _small, smaller,_ than the feral wolf, engulfed in the shadow of the lean ruff and the aura of someone _dangerous._ But he was sweet. _Kind._ Like a lamb, delicate but tenacious. _Oh,_ but that _blush-_ John would be sore to miss such a sight _bloom_ in front of his eyes-

    He didn't recall anyone ever _blushing_ for him before-

    Not like this.

 

" Looks good, John! Should be up and at it again soon enough. "

 

With the way Leo _smiled,_ like he was _worth something,_ made all of this feel... _purposeful._ Felt more than the bad luck he'd befallen himself by provoking a fight with a group much larger than himself-

    -And that. Why _had_ he done that?

The two of them had spent many candlelit-nights _wondering._ Trying to help the lost, feral man recover what he had lost of himself. Leo had mentioned that the terrible wounds dealt, especially the one at his head, to his body could account for some kind of _stress disorder._ To instances of _forgetfulness._ Of, what was the word? _Amnesia._ In a way, it was true. Actually, in many ways it was. The remnants of the _pain_ of the years, this last one in particular, seemed to have left lasting marks upon him.

According to the doctor, it was a miracle his body hadn't given up on him, as _malnourished and distressed_ as it was. Lucky to still have his teeth- apparently, he'd been clenching them so much they'd almost _broken._ Lucky to still have a somewhat-healthy heart, not like Leo's- what, with all of the _anxiety and panic_ it had been under for a prolonged period of time. 

John's recovery did not take so long because of just the injuries themselves-

    In the shortest of terms, his body and mind were utterly _exhausted._

And they both made their way to protect him. One, kept him dead in bed long enough to _heal, and the other-  
_  
Safeguarded the mind, shrouded it in impenetrable _fog._ He couldn't remember much of anything, although his age and birth had come back to him in pieces a few days after he'd been admitted. Could remember bits and pieces of the orphanage, sure. Could recall a flash of a _rope_ around his neck-

Had told Leo of it the moment he remembered. Remembered _himself,_ at least an important part: he was a _criminal._ Couldn't remember all the reasons. Couldn't remember all the instances of terribleness. But he knew they were there. Could feel them _simmer, marinating_ in his _skin, his bones, his muscles._ It dripped off of him in bright, sticky waves. He knew it, _he knew it._ When the only memories he had were ones of constant moving, constant _running, constant fleeing._ He'd never been safe, in all his life.

He couldn't remember who taught him to read and write, but he remembered a tall oak tree he'd carved silly things into on the road.

Couldn't remember the names of all the towns and places he'd been to, but he remembered what they looked like in little picturesque postcard snapshots in his head.

_Couldn't remember_ who'd taught him how to shoot a gun, but the day a gaggle of robbers had bundled into the office and held the barrel to Leo's forehead, John didn't miss a single of his three shots. _Killed three men in an instant._ Didn't blink. Didn't panic. It felt  _familiar._

_**Couldn't remember**_ who'd taught him to ride a horse, but the day he saddled one up after Leo had allowed him to wander a bit to gather supplies and stretch the gaunt muscles, it felt like _an old friend. Familiar._ Like he'd been doing it for years upon years of his life.

**_Couldn't remember_** learning how to hunt, but a little jaunt through the woods had nailed him a rabbit, beautifully done and tracked to perfection. When he'd crouched to the ground, everything seemed to fall into place like _puzzle pieces,_ and he knew what to do without a single thought in his empty head.

**_C o u l d n ' t  r e m e m b e r_** who taught him how to tell at a glance whether a gunshot wound was fatal or not, whether an injury was infected or not- sometimes so quickly, it even took Leo off-guard. But he knew it, and looking at his own body, covered in old gashes, gunshot wounds and barbed-wire rings, it was heavily implied that despite the lack of memory, his life... had not been _easy.  
_  
But... none of the _reasons_ ever came to mind. Even after his bruises had faded, gashes to scars, leg to good as new. He just... couldn't _recall._ And every instance of _trying,_ of _wanting to,_ was met with firm resistance and a tingling pain that tantalized up and down his spine- a _warning-  
_

 

_ You're not ready. _

 

Judging by the awful state of himself when he'd been dumped at Leo's feet, he didn't doubt that perhaps... he really  _wasn't._

So, he contented to _stay._

With _Leo.  
_  
An... _assistant, of sorts._ An eye trained to wounds, a nose finding it easy to scent gunpowder and blood and whether infection was waiting in the wings or not. A _protector._ No one dared rob them again after his little _show_ with a pistol. A _provider._ Hunted when his leg wasn't too stiff, even convincing Leo up on a horse a few times (the scared chap had hardly ever ridden one). Tracked the river, the forests, the plains, wandering together when Leo managed to find his courage and took to it like a fish to water (the doctor had laughed quite beautifully when John had said that one).

Before the ground turned to the mush of summer, Leo even took him to the place he'd been found.

Hoping, _trying,_ to jog any kind of memory.

But there was only a patch of earthen ground, perhaps a bit churned, off the beaten path and in the brambles. One of the bushes was torn through- John remembered that part, in the grappling for his _life._ But everything else was foreign. Frosted. Cold. Unknown. Nothing came to mind, nothing spoke to him.

He tried not to feel so _lost._ But even in that, in the nights alone he had when Leo had long gone to bed, he remembered only ever feeling that way. He'd never been _not lost._ Except for, perhaps...

When Leo became _special._

_Five months._

 

...

" I don't remember ever bein' happy. Real... _happy._ But, I reckon, stickin' around here, with you, has changed that. "

 

He almost hadn't meant to say it when he did- knew Leo hadn't expected it either, with the way his body stiffened and those _pretty pretty_ green eyes flickering sharp up to him instead of focusing on the pocket watch he'd been tinkering with.

 

" ... Is that so? "

 

Waxy wings, _guitar strings-_

There was a tune always in his head. Felt he should know the fingers playing it in the darkness, glowing with the light of fire on _fire-_

_Never could._

 

" Yeah, I reckon so. "

 

Skin _soft._ Beard _soft._ Gaze _soft._

How he  _smiled_ when John's calloused, ripped, scarred tips trailed the side of his jaw, lost and found all at once. _Tender._ Something that, frankly, the cowboy didn't think himself capable of. But Leo was just like a sweet-tailed _lamb,_ all bright-eyed and eyes endless in their pitch. 

And the _wolf_ wanted to know whether he was sweet and soft  _everywhere too._

_Six months._

 

_there is a stag, that visits him in his dreams._

_knows its a dream, because at the end of his vision is a furred snout and glossy nose._

_because he is a wolf, and the stag returns, almost every night._

_different places, some new, many old (he cannot recall their names, no matter which they were)._

_it is always in the distance, and no matter how much he runs after its light, he never gets any closer._

_it only ever stares. endless. the sun likes to peak between the crown of its antlers._

_its a beautiful animal._

_he gets the feeling it tries to tell him something, sometimes._

_he never understands._

...

 

Turns out, Leo truly is _quite sweet everywhere._

Feels _good, everywhere._ In his heart, his mind, and in _body._

He looks good _shaking_ beneath John, spit-slicked and ringed with lovebites and pretty-petaled _bruises_ from lips. Lavenders, roses, daffodils, pressed into the honeyed skin that yielded so  _easily_ to him- fit his _eyes._ Made him look the beautiful forest that he was, full of wildflowers and forever _warm. Giving._

Gave all of himself to the other, left marks of his _own-_ scratch marks up the cowboy's spine, in the divots of his biceps, wrapped around his hipbones. 

_Bleats_ little noises like a sweet lamb, shivers like a _rabbit,_ eyes misted and breath _panting_ when the wolf fucks him, again and again. 

    _Can't get enough.  
_  
        John feels _wanted._ Feels _precious,_ when Leo's fingers would card through his hair after. Would always share in kisses, in kinder words and gentle caresses. He's never left alone, and he never leaves the smaller man to be left in the cold. Every time, the wolf never leaves the lamb's side- Leo never wakes up _alone.  
_  
    There is something... _incessant._ Deep, in his heart, that pushes him to be so... _particular about it._ There is something about the thought of the man being _alone_ when he wakes, after something _special,_ that it... it _hurts.  
_  
    Something about it feels _personal.  
_  
        John never leaves. Leo never leaves, _never._ And, sometimes, that's just enough to bring tears to well in his eyes.

            Leo never laughs, never makes fun. Holds him close, purrs in his ears, wraps him in warmth and _acceptance.  
_  
... Doesn't remember the last time he'd ever felt this way.

Reckons he'd never _had_ felt this way, not before now.

    _Eight months.  
_

 

...

_sometimes, he sees a coyote, too._

_it's a lean thing, with forlorn and the darkest of eyes he'd ever seen._

_when it bays, it sounds just like the tune he'd never been able to rid from his head._

_this one, he catches up to._

_they touch noses, every time, and it feels like an old friend._

_still doesn't._

_there is a crow in the distance- forever watching, always above him._

_its wingspan feels endless._

_a silver fox in the bushes a handful of times-_

_it licks his tears clean, beckons him to follow, and they walk the river together._

_there is a bluejay that pecks at his ears_

_it takes great pleasure in constantly yelling at him._

_but when it snuggles to his chest, and he can feel its little heartbeat, he can't bring himself to not love it._

_and... there is a wolf pup._

_a tiny thing, always at his paws, and he is constantly shielding it from demons in the darkness._

_the bluejay looks after it- tweets quiet, chirps encouragingly._

_he never understands._

 

Leo is patient with him.

    He walks with a grace John didn't think he'd ever understand.

When the doctor attempts to talk him into wadding the pond in the nearby woods, his throat _constricts_ and he _cowers_ and he  _can't do it._ There is something about it, the crystalline surface, that looked suspiciously _calm._ It reminded him of a trap. It reminded him of how the O'Drisols had almost _drowned him_ in the mud, pushing his face into the earthen puddles until he was choking on _dirt._

Leo always understood.

Just as how John caught him every time his hands began to _shake_ and he clutched at his chest, the panic beginning to _set_ in those green eyes when his heart and lungs beat out-of-tune. Knew exactly where his medication was, dutifully retrieved it every time. Let Leo rest on his chest to catch his breath while the cowboy hummed that _tune, that song, every time._ It seemed to soothe them both.

When one was angry or upset, the other _understood._ Didn't pressure the other into anything they were ready for. Always talked it out instead of _yelling.  
_  
    It took a long time for the cowboy to stop _stiffening_ like he was expecting a _blow_ every time.

Leo understood that part, too.

_Mistreatment_ was a common theme in both of their lives, it would seem.

Instead of making him feel _stupid,_ John was made to simply be _a little lost sometimes._ And Leo was always there to talk him through things he didn't understand, both about himself, about the doctor, about _life._ Neither fancied themselves a philosopher, but there were so many _ideas_ in their heads- it... was _nice_ to have someone to talk to about it. To have someone _listen, genuinely,_ to concerns and fears and worries and happinesses and joys.

Their orbits  _near perfection._ Like planets following their course, always knowing where to go for the other. 

 

" Careful now, you're startin' to make me think you actually like me. "

 

The doctor _smiles,_ cuffs his ears playfully-

 

" I think the correct word is _love._ And you would be correct. "

 

There is a _silence-_

His head feels _clear._ Feels _warm-  
_

 

" ... Well, I think this is 'bout the only time I've ever been right about something. "

 

_Laughing-_

Dragonflies like the windowsill. They visit frequently in the summer months, in the fall- John likes to stroke their wings, to look at their colors and imagine the lives they've lived. All the things they've _seen,_ with wings like that. Briefly wondered how much of the _world_ they'd seen when they came to his window for a brief rest and some sugar water.

    Thought: they've seen _the whole world. All of it.  
_  
Looking at Leo, at the place he called home now, at the town that knew him _-_

The _world_ was anything you wanted it to be. Sometimes it was expected, other times a surprise. It was as big or as small as you needed, and it could be insatiable or sated with the smallest of sips.

    The _whole world_ was _different_ for every person.

Wishing the insects well as they flitted away, John figured he'd seen all of his world. And he was sated.

 

He was happy.

He didn't need anything else.

...

_the stag kept coming back._

_he stopped chasing it._

_laid in the wildflower beds of his dreams and simply rested._

_they would stare at each other for what felt like hours._

_he stopped chasing it._

_the stag kept coming back._

 


End file.
